


You deserve a smile with no regret

by RebelMage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous descriptions of Enjolras' hair, I don't know how to tag this, M/M, Montparnasse is a weenie, Self-Hatred, Wow a song title how original
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelMage/pseuds/RebelMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is everything that Grantaire is not and could never be. Whilst Enjolras is beautiful – both in body and in spirit – Grantaire is hideous; Grantaire is hideous, his every action is, his every habit is, and his body is an outward manifestation of all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You deserve a smile with no regret

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm writing this for my 500 follower fic giveaway for patroclusandachilles. It was supposed to be short. I decided to post what I have so far, because I fear I'd just let it sit and rot otherwise.
> 
> Title is from the song Pony (It's OK).

During meetings, Enjolras has his hair in a ponytail. He does this to keep the wild curls from falling in his face, but a couple of locks will always fall loose, the soft, curled hairs contrasting and accentuating his sharp features. Sure, his looks are nothing when compared to his passion, his energy, his belief, but everything pales in comparison to that. How is it, Grantaire often wonders, that a man so perfect can exist in such a flawed world? Enjolras is, at the same moment, both terrifying and beautiful. His hauntingly ice-blue eyes look like they can cut right through you, so piercingly cold can they look at times. At other times, that ice is filled with a passionate fire, and yet it never seems to melt.

Grantaire has often tried to capture his likeness using any medium available to him – paint, pencils, charcoal, and what have you – but he never seems to succeed to capture his divine beauty. His hair isn’t golden enough, the colour of his eyes is not the exact right shade, or the position of the freckles on his otherwise flawless skin is just plain wrong. However, that doesn’t stop him from trying. There are days – weeks, _months_ – where Enjolras is the only thing he can draw. After all, nothing could even come close to comparing to Enjolras, in any way. Grantaire is quite aware of the fact that he’s hopelessly smitten.

It seems the only person who’s not aware of it is Enjolras himself. Of course, Grantaire supposes it’s better that way. He knows there’s no way anything ever could happen between them. They never do anything but fight, to begin with; they could never get along. Enjolras is everything that Grantaire is not and could never be. Whilst Enjolras is beautiful – both in body and in spirit – Grantaire is hideous; Grantaire is hideous, his every action is, his every habit is, and his body is an outward manifestation of all that.

Sometimes, after the meetings, Enjolras wears his hair loose. Those are the times when he joins his friends in their laughter and perhaps shares a drink. He laughs and jokes around with them, and Grantaire can do nothing but sit and stare at his mesmerising brilliance. Enjolras’ golden curls bounce around his head when he laughs at a silly joke one of their friends make, and in those moments Grantaire’s fingers ache to grab a pencil and _draw_ because this angelic beauty deserves to be eternised, but he never finishes what he starts because it just _isn’t good enough_. Nothing he makes will ever be good enough, especially not when it involves Enjolras.

(If he were to _look_ , he would soon find out that Enjolras stares at him as well. If he were to _ask_ , Enjolras would not refuse. Neither realise this, each sparing a glance, or longer, when the other is not looking.)

❧

It’s late at night when he finally puts his brush down. He’s been working on a piece, and he’s actually satisfied with it. He feels content – a foreign feeling to him – as he cleans his brushes. Yes, he – dare he say it? – feels _good_. He _likes_ what he’s created. He’s not entirely useless after all, he supposes. He can at least do this.

It’s the first night in a long time Grantaire goes to sleep with a smile on his face.

❧

In the morning, it’s over again. From his dreams, he recalls yelled words and angry, disappointed faces. Yelling at him, angry with him, disappointed with him. He remembers faces seeing him for who he is, an _abomination_. The details flee away from him as he tries to recall them, but he knows they were familiar faces. His friends’ faces. The words are inevitable.

He takes one look at his painting and something in him breaks. It isn’t good. Nothing he creates could ever be good. He sees mistakes, too many to be counted. He’s useless, useless, _useless_. He can’t even do something simple like painting. He’s a disappointment, a wretch, a waste of space and oxygen.

The next thing he knows, he’s knifing the canvas. He doesn’t even remember retrieving the knife, but he tears it through the canvas with ease and he know he should feel something, anger or sadness, but he just feels empty. Useless.

He doesn’t go home that evening. Instead of going to the meeting, Grantaire goes to a bar and drinks until he can’t drink anymore. When he knocks on Éponine’s door, she takes one look at him and decides not to ask any questions. He collapses on her couch and doesn’t get up until the next morning.

❧

Éponine had been woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of Grantaire’s knocking, but now finds herself unable to go back to sleep. She’s worried about Grantaire. They’ve been friends for ages, both finding in the other’s presence solace and refuge from their less-than-ideal home situations. Now, Éponine is in a good place. She has struggles, sure, but she’s content with her life.

Grantaire, however, doesn’t seem to be doing much better. Now’s a particularly bad moment, but he seems to have more lows than highs in his life. It makes her wish she could _do_ something, but, aside from being there for him when he needs her – and threatening anyone who says anything bad about him – there’s not much more she _can_ do.

Well, if this is the only thing she can do, she’ll do it well. She’ll be there for him. She sends a quick text to Montparnasse to cancel their plans for tomorrow, so that she has time for Grantaire.

As she heads into the kitchen to make herself some coffee, since she won’t be going back to sleep anymore, her phone buzzes with a text from Montparnasse. _Of course_ he’d still be awake. The text only contains a sad face, and she can’t help but smile at that.

‘What a loser,’ she mutters fondly to herself. Montparnasse really is a sweet guy, deep down. (Only to the people he likes, like Éponine, though. If you get on his bad side… Well, just don’t.)

When she’s finished her coffee – black, just like how Grantaire takes his coffee, unlike Montparnasse whose coffee is more sugar and milk than actual coffee – she returns to her living room where Grantaire’s fallen asleep on the couch. She drapes a spare blanket over him and sits down in a chair close to him.

She spends the rest of the night texting Montparnasse. His responses have her smiling and shaking her head more often than not. It erases at least part of the worries that are plaguing her mind, and she’s grateful for it.


End file.
